


Half-God, Half-Devil

by oceansinmychest



Category: Wentworth (TV)
Genre: Asphyxiation, Choking, Consensual Sex, F/F, Season/Series 05, Smut
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-08-25
Updated: 2017-08-25
Packaged: 2018-12-19 16:41:26
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,446
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11901837
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/oceansinmychest/pseuds/oceansinmychest
Summary: God unravels before creation. /  You choke her. You choke her to taste her pulse, to taste her true.





	Half-God, Half-Devil

**Author's Note:**

  * For [TheLexFiles](https://archiveofourown.org/users/TheLexFiles/gifts).



> Sometimes, my tastes are... unconventional.

> “I push you to the darkness just to pull you to the light,  
>  'Cause I can take away your breath or I can bring you back to life”
> 
> _Half-God, Half-Devil_ – In This Moment

The scene sets itself in Wentworth Correctional Facility. There is no point in being elsewhere.

Sometimes, it's necessary to play the villain to be crowned the victor. With all her plans – her deadly machinations – laid in place, Joan Ferguson smirks to herself. The Devil rests in the final circle of Hell, quite content.

In her rise to Top Dog, an allure presents itself under the pretense of absolute power. She's high off the effects, entertained in the way she manages to push Governor Bennett's buttons.

Governor: a title that so rightfully belongs to her.

Tonight, a cheap impostor enters her cell. Tonight, she tests the frailty of Vera Bennett. It's a ritual that has no beginning and no end.

Despite the lamb straying, she always returns to her shepherd.

Blunt nails ghost across the expanse of her steamed, white sheets. They're warm underneath Joan's weight. Gradually, she stands to her full height. Her lean, twisted shadow threatens to consume the little mouse that stands at the mouth of her den, pretending to be bold.

“Vera, my dear, have you had your revelation? You don't run this prison,” she drawls, croons in a gravelly timber that's a dose of cyanide “--I do.”

The words belong to an old exchange, remolded to fit the occasion. Vera's nervous hands hide in the depths of her pocket, her gaze hardened, but Joan knows her underling's true nature: weak and powerless, down to the core. She's not worthy of wearing the crowns, of carrying the name.

“You're delusional. Is this what it takes to get you to feel something so wholly – by fucking up the lies of everyone? It makes you _sick_."

Ferguson looks down at this pathetic excuse of a governor, nostrils flared, brow scrupulously raised. She invades any conception of personal space, cornering her prey. A woman of Vera Bennett's caliber make her seem so appallingly paper _thin_.

_I could tear you asunder; I could rip you to shreds._

Blood would act as a mighty fine communion. Entertaining the thought, she strokes that taut throat and feels Vera swallow. Without the familiar crease of leather gloves, no barrier separates her from the calculated touch. This way, it's more personable.

Violence tempts. There is a precision to this art. Overwhelming hostility can suffocate. With her scalded hand, she strokes the smooth curve of Vera's jaw that clicks. That grows tense. That clenches beneath the smoldering touch.

"I will annihilate you," Joan whispers.

 _Promises_.

 **Hisses** into the shell of her protege's ear.

Vera envisions gnashing teeth, but the tandem strike of Joan's forearm against her windpipe reminds her of the needle. She puts on a struggle, writhes against the Devil's spoke, but it's a false veneer. She lets Joan choke her; perhaps as her own sick sense of atonement.

Her forearm crushes the mouse's thorax. She savors the scarlet that blossoms: how it conquers a pretty, petite face now twisted in pain. For a moment, Joan relents.

Suddenly, the air comes rushing back into her lungs.

Loud and sharp, Vera gasps.

After a moment, Joan hums. She resembles a predator toying with her prey after she's had her share: a cat batting at the tail of vermin on death's door.

"I could crush you," she muses.

"You won't kill me,” Vera insists. “You _need_ me."

She challenges an apex predator with a thumb to Joan's wrist, feeling the accelerated pulse. The hollow of her throat presents an irresistible delicacy. Irked, Ferguson promptly reacts – falls for the bait.

Offense is rewarded with a cruel touch. This anger comes in palpable waves to mirror the flutter of her pulse.

A light squeeze transforms into a rougher one. She holds Vera in the air, thrust into a state of suspended animation. Rather than the windpipe, she goes for the artery. The carotid arteries endure a squeeze. Three seconds of deprivation before she releases. Plays God and watches Vera greedily drink in nothingness.

Brutal benediction is bestowed upon her disciple. The light very nearly fades from her eyes. It reminds Ferguson of Warner and how she writhed within her choke-hold.

Nearly deprived of oxygen, the endorphins keep her awake. Her face reddened, Vera gags. Holds onto the wrist that hones in on this Herculean strength.

To and fro, she kicks her legs.

Arousal carries a particular scent. A display of dominance asserts her power in every sense of the word. She enjoys watching the light flicker and fade behind those wide, blue eyes, shed free from their innocence.

Ferguson lets go.

A pattern follows.

Squeeze, squeeze, release, tease.

"Oh, Vera; you've always craved someone's total control over your miserable life."

She growls after she speaks, the noise borderline feral.

Her knee slides in between the valley of Vera's thighs. Pushes into the clothed mound that burns hotter than any flame. Joan exhales. Slowly, languorously, her mouth slightly agape. Pupils dilate despite such darkened depths. Nostrils flare. Her lip twitches.

With a proper chance to breathe, Governor Bennett dares to breathe – greedily gulps in the sticky air. Again, she lets go. Vera rubs her swollen, aching throat.

"You're aroused," Vera states. Observes carefully. She treads on a tightrope, but she's been blessed with a newly found bite.

"You're _wet_ ," Joan counters whilst biting down on her T's.

"So are you," Vera challenges in the role of submissive. "Playing God gets you off."

She can neither confirm nor deny the statement.

“Ha” is said simply, a sound to pass the time. Graceful fingers, those worthy of donning a foil or a rapier, caress the corded column that makes up Vera's neck. A collar of reddened tissue graces her flesh. It's a noose, a brand, a sick sense of belonging.

Craving more, Joan nips at her earlobe, her breathing ragged. She tears open the collar to Miss Bennett's shirt, yanking the tie at a harsh angle.

"Will you rise or fall?"

The taunt sounds more akin to a demand than an actual question. Vera's lips slant. Her spine presses further into the concrete wall. Her lungs feel swollen from the brutality of it all, but she refuses to give in.

"I'll kneel, _Joan_."

And she does.

Those cruel hands release her from her restraints. To the ground, she falls. Eager hands fall to the waistband of her sweats; she cannot deny her own excitement in doing this. Practical panties pool around Joan's ankles. She steps out of them, watching the devoted tend to her and alleviate that ache between her legs.

Face to altar, Vera worships her cunt. She kneads her ass. Rolls firm muscle within her grip. Guarantees bruises in the fervor of her eager tongue. It's burning hot. Vera tastes a mouthful of perdition.

Her fingers hook into Vera's shoulders. Slither down to dig into her back. The lioness' claws leave scratches through the layers; she intends on inflicting as much damage as possible.

From beneath her, Vera emits a muffled moan.

Petite hands grasp her pelvis. Wanton need causes her to buck, to thrust into such a velvety embraces. A deft tongue traces her wet slit, travels upward to lap at her clit. Her palm moves to settle against the back of Vera's head, pushing her closer, forcing her to go harder – deeper – with her ministrations.

Joan grits her teeth and chooses to neglect the dire need for control. Falls for the ploy of one's based needs, instead. She feels those fingers probe at her, slide in easily. They pump in rapid succession, curling deeper inside. 

“Vera...” She sings in a low tone, lethal to the weakest of souls. “This is all that you're meant to be,” she insults. “No matter what you do, you will always be below me.”

_Worship me._

Rather than giving Joan the satisfaction of responding, Vera clamps her legs together and focuses on the task at hand. She feels fingers claw into her freshly militaristic bun. One by one, the bobbypins fall out and scatter across the ground. Wild and free, her hair bounces. She tilts her head back though the pain in her neck flares at an all time high.

She sips from the Devil's cup, tongue buried to the hilt. Vigorously, she eats out her former mentor – her saint that's been venerated for all the wrong things. Laps at her cunt, deep and true. Unabashed, Joan moans. Chokes Vera with the sensation of her thighs pressed against her cheeks. Fucked by mouth and fingers, she comes undone. Unravels here in Hell.

God unravels before creation.

 

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you, Lexie, for continuing to inspire me and being such a wonderful RP partner!


End file.
